Brûlant
by Expecto-Prongs
Summary: When Jack finds a broken and scarred Will bleeding out in a room, he could have never guessed that something fundamental had changed in the man. A dark Will thirsts for blood and hunts in the night, all the while seeking out the guidance of the monster who had manipulated him for so long.
1. Chapter 1

**I already posted this, but as a giant one-shot. I decided I didn't really like the feel of that and so now I'm reposting as separate chapters. There will be eight.**

**As before, disclaimers for violence and gore, some language. There's slash in the last chapter.**

i.

In the end, it took a lot more than just petty mind games to push Will over the edge.

It took isolation, time to just stare at his own blood trickling from his chest down his bare stomach and onto the floor. Observing, touching, lightly dragging his fingers through it, after all, countless hours alone in a bare, locked room does strange things to a man.

The media had judged him harshly, prior to his abrupt incarceration. In a sense, Freddie's meddling and prodding into his less than desirable lifestyle crucified him. He was a sensation, some sick twisted specimen laid bare for public consumption, to be looked at and sneered at and maybe even feared, just a little. But not all eyes belong to the common masses. Some have very insidious intent. When Will eventually became the target of the latest serial sicko, the man knew too much about him to be normal, to be an accident.

It wasn't safe. Then again, when had anything in Will's life been particularly safe or sane?

He came to, strapped to a table. It was safe to say that he was having a difficult time differentiating between the other victim's ordeal and his own. Was this even real? Or was he just seeing what someone else had seen before him?

"Will Graham." The man spoke directly to him, as if he knew that his captive wasn't quite sure of who he was. "It is an honor."

Will couldn't say anything. Not with the tape over his mouth. But he did manage to breathe in and out of his nose harshly, clearly signifying his distress. He could feel his hair plastered to his forehead, sweat trickling down the side of his face and sparkling in the harsh fluorescent lighting.

Through the glare of the overhead lights, the silhouette of his captor loomed menacingly over him. Tall, thin, boney. A little bit mad, but maybe just a little too sane as well.

"I don't usually pick up celebrities," he said conversationally, turning his back to Will. "But you're _different, _aren't you? I have something special in mind for you." The man faced his way again, and Will noted with a lurch in his stomach that he held a knife in his hand.

He was going to die.

Looking at it objectively, Will thought as his breathing slowed slightly, he wasn't really afraid of death. He dealt with it on a daily basis. One might say that he knew it intimately. He wasn't even afraid of the pain associated with it. Not too much, anyways. What he found truly distasteful was the thought of Jack's mouth setting in a straight line, teeth pressing up against his lips like when the interns burn the coffee. Or Freddie's thinly disguised glee as she worms herself in among the press, snapping pictures of his likely disfigured corpse. Alana's meaningful tears, and his dogs going unloved, uncared for. Hannibal's face, set in stone, unreadable.

"You're going to be a masterpiece when I'm finished with you," the man breathed, sliding close to Will's prone form and adeptly slicing off his shirt, the one barrier left between him and the pain he knew was coming.

He brought his hand to the side of Will's face and tugged gently at the tape. The adhesive clung possessively to his skin, lingering even as the tape was removed. He licked his chapped lips once, twice, and then was still. He did not speak. The jaded man just stared at his captor, willing him to reveal his plan, his design.

"Who are you?" The question came from the captor, and Will knew that he was meant to answer it. How was he to respond, was the tricky part.

"Will Graham," he whispered, breath hitching minutely. Will's head jerked to the side and his jaw ached. He realized belatedly that the man had backhanded him, the first show of violence since he had woken up. The whole side of his face smarted, the tell tale ache of a bruise building and stretching across his skin.

"Who are you really?" The man, Will could tell, was giving him time to answer. As much time as he needed. This was part of the ritual, part of the design. The man's face was cast in sharp relief by the light; one half shadowed and the other gaunt. He had the sunken cheeks of a long time smoker, but not the smell of one. The eyes of an insomniac but none of the twitches. The sharp cheekbones of aristocracy but none of the stuffiness of it. Mid thirties, brown hair, dark eyes, barely there stubble and defining eyebrows.

"Think," he growled, grabbing Will's jaw so tightly that his fingernails cut into the fragile skin there. "Reach into yourself, find the truth."

_The mirrors in your mind can reflect the best of yourself, not the worst of someone else._

"I- I don't know," Will admitted, feeling Hannibal's words linger in his thoughts, festering there like a diseased wound.

"You're an after image, a ghost, a slave to your empathy, an empty shell. You're name is Will Graham but you've got every killer you've ever met churning in _here_," the man jabbed quickly at his chest where his heart was straining against his ribs. "There's no room for you when there's a hundred other people clanging around."

Will's mouth twisted into a bitter smile. "And I suppose you'll be the one to 'fix' me then? Where everyone else has failed?" His muscles were taut beneath his bonds, ready to snap.

"Well, putting it simply, yes," the man smiled benevolently. "I'm a specialist, you see. I have it all up here, in my head. I'll burn you down, and from your ashes, you _will _be reborn."

"You're insane," the empath spat. He was snarling, straining, struggling. He didn't want to be remade. Not like this.

Despite Will's struggles, the man just smirked and shrugged.

"Maybe. Doesn't mean I'm not right though." The man replaced the tape to its former position on Will's face. "You'll see once I snip away all those marionette strings. You'll thank me."

The pain was sudden, sharp, succinct, and absolute. The knife, formerly forgotten but now back in the forefront of the bound man's attention, cut cleanly through his bared chest. Neat, pen like strokes. Deep enough to scar, yet not so deep as to cause him to bleed out.

The man continued his work silently, ignoring Will's frantic jerking and yowling behind the tape. The most he reacted to his struggling was to place a restraining hand on his shoulder.

A swirling, cascading character began on Will's left shoulder and chest area, sweeping deftly across his clavicle.

On his right side, a thickly carved basic symbol; a crude combination of lines and curves that aligned parallel with his ribs and curved perfectly with where his neck and shoulder sloped into his arm.

Just below the sternum, the last symbol was carved with quick, precise strokes. A horizontal line with two twin peaks rising out of it. Lines as straight as though using a ruler, impeccably even as though the man was made of stone. Unyielding.

By the time the man stepped back, Will had turned his head away in order to hide the incriminating tears welling up in his eyes. He blinked, willing the wetness to dry out before the man could take stock of his weakness.

"This is going to hurt." Out of the corner of his eye, Will could see that the wraith like man had a fist full of white powder in his grasp. He knew where this was going.

"Why are you doing this," he pleaded against the tape. The words came out muffled and bounced dully off the walls.

"It is the only way to evict the other occupants in your head. If there was another way..." he trailed off, and then sighed. "Well, no use thinking like that."

Tears tread down his flushed face, the water collecting at the edge of the tape and evaporating. His body was twitching, jerking away from the prospect of getting salt literally rubbed into his wounds.

The man didn't let him wallow in the prospect of it for very long. As soon as the innocuous mineral reached his injuries, all he knew was pain. It was the only thing he could think of. He arched off the table and sobbed, choking on his own swollen misery, but the man didn't stop.

He felt carved out, empty, and then filled with all encompassing agony. He felt like he was burning alive.

Will absently felt a hand card through his damp brown curls.

Then, nothing.

0O0

Will woke up to various body parts screaming at him, each demanding his attention. He was sprawled out on the hard concrete of the floor. He slowly sat up, stretching the wounds on his chest and causing them to bleed with renewed vigor. No one was there to hear him scream.

The next time he attempted to move, he commanded his muscles to move gently, in tiny increments. He pushed his back up against the wall, letting the solid fixture support him through his exhaustion. Even moving mere feet was like running a marathon. He must have lost a lot of blood before he had regained consciousness.

He took stock of his situation. He was alone, in a ten by ten room. Concrete floors. No windows. Beige walls. One door, probably locked. Even if it wasn't, he doubted he would have the strength to reach it anyhow. His head fell back in defeat, thudding against the wall. There was no telling how long it would take for anyone to come for him, if they would at all. He idly thought of Alana, Jack, even Hannibal. But as time passed ever slowly in its unstoppable parade towards oblivion, he thought less and less about his would be rescuers and more about himself.

As ridiculous as it sounded, he was bored. Even the pain was an unchanging and constant throb in his chest. He wasn't going to start talking to himself, because he wasn't _that _far gone, but his options to stave off the creeping ennui were limited in his confinement. Just him and the cavern that used to be his soul.

His fingers tapped out a syncopated rhythm on his stomach, his shirt still absent from his earlier encounter. Hours passed, and his tapping evolved into tracing. And then, well, he didn't register when it started, but he was dragging his fingers through the stream of blood on his chest. He left little trails in the pool of red, thin paths through the viscous liquid that just moments prior served as his life force and was now reduced to a lonely distraction.

It didn't take too long for him to tentatively bring his hand from his wounded chest, slicked by blood, up to his mouth. The taste was nothing special, just copper and salt, but it was grounding in some strange sense. The red of it was so vivid in comparison to the dull colors of the world surrounding it. The walls were beige, his skin was pale, his jeans were faded and dirty. Only the red of the blood seemed real in this forced isolation.

Will knew that he was skirting into dangerous territory as he slowly took his hand back out of his mouth, dragging his teeth along the skin lightly. He knew from personal experience that this was how many killers felt, that this is something that drove them to slit throats and carve flesh. Nothing in the world seemed real but the technicolor red of another's blood, the shuddering gasp of a human drawing its last breath.

Before he could think on it further, he came to the realization that the origin of his thoughts ran deep in his own veins, entrenched in the black shuddering chasm of what he had lost somewhere along the road of his captivity. It throbbed with each beat of his heart. His mind was blissfully blank, only he resided there. For once, no one else tainted his thought processes. There was nobody else's ulterior motives, there was no stag stalking his every move. All thoughts were his own. His captor had made sure of it.

His breath quickened. This was the first time he had truly been himself, just himself, in quite some time.

There was no room for denial here, in Hell. He would either have to face his demons, or die as a fragment of a man who never really existed. He had to make himself real.

"I liked killing Hobbs," he whispered to himself, voice rasping with just a hint of the remnants of his earlier screams. "I did."

The sentiment was swallowed by the stifling silence of the room, leaving Will to wonder if he had said it at all.

"Would you do it again?" a voice came from his left. Will wrenched his head towards the sound and regretted it as soon as he did.

Garrett Jacob Hobbs, teeth bared in a half sneer half smirk, cocked his head at Will's horrified expression.

"Oh come on, no need to be like that. We've been sharing your noggin for months now," he huffed, closing his death fogged eyes and leaning back against the wall. Even post mortem, his wounds still bled sluggishly.

"You're not _real,_" Will hissed, weakly pushing himself further into the wall.

"I'm real to you," he reasoned. "And in the end, isn't that all that matters?"

"No… yes? I don't know!" Will dragged his hands over his face and tugged on his hair. "I don't know anything anymore!" His voice broke at the end, and he felt like he couldn't breathe. He was trapped in a room, half dead, talking to a hallucination, and fighting the urge to put his bloody hand back in his mouth.

"Why are you so afraid of me? I'm dead. Dead men don't tell lies, they don't hurt anyone," he whispered, oozing sincerity. "Why are you always so opposed to my presence?"

"Because me seeing you just proves that I'm crazy!" Will howled, nearing hysteria. "Sane people don't hallucinate people-" he stuttered, but continued, "people they _killed._"

"I disagree. I think it shows character depth."

"Is that so," Will sneered, turning away abruptly. "Why should I listen to you anyway?" he said the last bit towards the wall, willing the man to not answer him. Today was not his lucky day.

"Because I'm you."

The veracity of the sentiment rang through his head, echoing against his fevered, aching thoughts.

"Ever since you shot me, a bit of me lived on in you. You and I, we share a lot of the same motivations."

"I'm not a killer," Will ground out.

"And yet, you liked killing me."

Will wasn't fooling anyone when he shook his head desperately. Fractures were forming in what he had thought himself to be.

"I liked serving justice. I liked saving Abigail. I liked making sure you would never hurt anyone again."

"You could have done that without killing me." Will flinched. The figment of Hobbs grinned. "You could have shot me in the knee. You could have incapacitated me in any other way. And yet, you shot me nine times. A bit overkill, don't you think?"

"Stop!" Will was covering his ears, steadfastly ignoring the tugging on his barely scabbed over wounds. The skin split once again, and caused hot blood to well up and trickle over his doodles from earlier.

"I'll ask again," Hobbs crooned, leaning over and gripping Will's shoulder. It felt real. Will could feel a bruise well up where the specter clenched his skin. He turned reluctantly towards the man who tortured him with his continued persistence.

"What," his voice quavered, as soft as Hobbs' own, almost as if he thought that if he spoke louder, he would break into a thousand pieces.

"Would you do it again?"

The question hung in the air.

"Yes," Will whispered, lips forming around the affirmation almost without his consent. Hobbs smiled at him, genuine, all traces of malcontent gone from his countenance.

"There we go," he said, letting go of Will. "That wasn't so hard."

Will's resulting nervous laugh was hysterical, jagged. His wounds burned. The pain he felt made him more real than he had been in many years. Possibly ever.

0O0

Jack Crawford had tagged many hazards along with the name Will Graham. Unstable, Fragile, even Potentially Dangerous. But Victim, that was never one of them.

The steel door had a carving on it. That was how they knew they were on the right track. A circle, with a line bisecting it horizontally. It had all the signs of the Alchemy Assassin (rubbish name, the man wasn't an assassin. He was a killer, clear and simple. But the media loved their alliteration, even sparing accuracy to buy themselves a meager serving of poetic gore).

Jack and his swarm of FBI cronies kicked in the door. Will Graham had never looked so fragile and deranged as he did in that moment, covered in his own blood and smiling at something that wasn't there.

**Take time to review. The next chapter will be out soon.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Sorry for the wait, and thanks to those who reviewed and favorited/followed. The chapter lengths are not very consistent because it was originally one long chapter instead of broken into shorter ones. **

Will Graham was very still in the sea of sterilized whites. He had bags of blood floating above his head, strapped into his veins, slowly kickstarting him to life.

The predator sat in the adjacent chair, keeping up a silent vigil of his intended prey. Will's charts lay open next to him. His precious Will had been branded by some other man. Three symbols were carved into his chest. Owned by some other force, tainted. Hannibal had wanted the honor for himself, but the fight for Will Graham wasn't over yet. He still had time to make his mark on the malleable consultant.

As soon as he had seen the pictures, he had known exactly what they were. Old alchemy symbols, used in what passed for modern science and medicine during the 18th century. A bit outdated, but alarmingly effective. At least in Will's case they had been.

On his left shoulder, purification. On his right, death. And on his sternum, binding the triumvirate together, fire. In any other case, he would have been fascinated. But now, he was just frustrated. Defeat was a foreign and bitter taste in his mouth, and he didn't enjoy its presence in his machinations.

While the empath was being stitched back together by the doctors, the encephalitis that Hannibal had been trying to cultivate in secret had been discovered. Treated. Eradicated. The only fever lingering on Will's waxy skin was of his own body's volition.

He had lost an alarming amount of blood, and according to the records, had suffered insurmountable agony by having salt rubbed into the wounds.

Salt. Used for purification and renewal.

He also had mild abrasions on his forearms, mouth, calves, neck, and thighs where he had been strapped to the table.

The man was an artist. He made sure his canvas was still.

Will still seemed permanently frozen, a fixed point unable to experience time. His chest barely moved with his shallow breath, giving him an ethereal appearance.

Hannibal resigned himself to wait. He was a patient monster, after all.

0O0

"Look at him," Hobbs hissed from the opposite side of the bed. Will kept himself still. "Look at Doctor Lecter. You've known it all along, haven't you? Old Will knew it from the beginning. He was too weak to see it though. Not like you. See."

_He's just like me. _

"He survives on the blood of others. Just like me. Just like _you._" Will could feel the foreign blood travel down through the tubes and pulse through his veins.

_Drip Drip Drip. _

_Murderer. Murderer. Murderer._

He had always had a knack for seeing death. Hannibal's kills clicked neatly into place among the others he had witnessed, as if he had always known and accepted the therapist's true visage.

_Chesapeake Ripper._

He had eaten some of that meat. Hannibal had lied to him. Used him.

He was too far gone to care.

**Yeah I know that's really short, but the next chapter is really long. Feedback is appreciated.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Thanks for the reviews. This next chapter is really violent, so warning for that.**

iii.

"Paper or plastic?"

It was just a little thing, really. Just a tiny, miniscule thing that made him realize what he had become.

"Ah, paper."

Will's smile was bland, flaking at the edges. It was shocking that he was let out of the hospital without any questions as to his psychological health. He suspected Hannibal had something to do with that. Alana wouldn't be pleased.

The grocery store clerk, no more than twenty five years old and already tired of working for a living, hurriedly placed the dog food in one bag, and the vegetables in another.

"Shit!"

The clerk withdrew his hand hastily from the thick paper bag, a small bead of blood welling on his finger. He hurriedly rubbed the bleeding digit onto his vest, obliterating the evidence that he had ever been wounded.

"Sorry," the man said, flushing red. He shoved the bags into the slightly transfixed brunette's arms. "Have a nice day sir."

"Back at you," Will replied mechanically, backing away. He was unsettled at the effect the small paper cut had on him, how his insides clenched when the man wiped the blood away, hiding it.

Blood was truth. Blood told no lies.

He climbed into his truck, and Hobbs, suddenly flickering into existence, got in the passenger side.

"Looks like you've found your motivation." He gazed at Will fondly when the man didn't even flinch. He was a resilient man, a survivor.

"Oh?" Will answered noncommittally, keeping his eyes on the road ahead.

"What makes you kill." Will risked taking his eyes off the road for a split second to look at his companion.

"Okay," he said with more interest, turning back towards the black top.

"Well, you know for me it was girls that looked like Abby."

"Abigail," Will corrected automatically.

"She's my little girl, not yours," Hobbs retorted heatedly, suddenly tense in his seat, "I'll call her whatever the fuck I want."

"She stopped being a little girl after she ate your first victim," Will growled, beginning to feel anger build in his chest to match Hobbs'.

"I know what you're doing," the dead man said lowly, teeth grinding in barely suppressed animosity. "You're embodying me. You are thinking like you're her father."

"Maybe." Will was white knuckling the steering wheel. He never liked to talk about his empathy, or Abigail. "I don't see how it's your business, seeing as you're dead and all. And it's not like you would have won 'Father of the Year' anyways."

If Hobbs were still able, Will knew he would be dead. But he wasn't able, he existed only in Will's twisted imagination.

"Fine," Hobbs sniffed, still aggravated. "But this isn't over. You can't run from the truth. Abigail is just like you. Just like me. And just like Hannibal."

"Quit it," Will snapped, taking a sharp left turn that made his truck squeal in protest. The apparition's mouth curled into a bitter smile. He knew he hit a nerve.

"She may not have been completely willing, but she helped me kill all those girls. Blood coats her hands. You'd be a fool not to see it."

"Well, it looks like we're all just one big murder family then." Will snarked, steadily pushing on the accelerator, irritation cloying his senses.

In the wake of their tense conversation, Will retreated into his own thoughts. He was going to have to level the playing field between him and Hannibal. He had spent far too much time being danced about by the man, shrinking into his all encompassing shadow.

"My motivator is blood." Will said, breaking the thick silence in the truck. "Concealing blood... hiding oneself."

It made sense. Will had been laid bare, hollowed out and filled by pain. He had no way to hide, no way to avoid seeing himself in the glistening surface of his own blood.

"Well, what do you plan on doing about it, Will?" The specter disappeared, but Will could see Hobbs smiling as if he was still sitting beside him.

0O0

"Get your ass down here."

The sun glittered brightly off the wet pavement as Will exited his truck. Jack had called him about fifteen minutes prior, pleading for his help, well, demanding his help in the latest crime scene. He promised it would be worth his while.

Will knew it would be.

It was his first case since he had been abducted. He suspected Alana had something to do with that. She had always maintained that he was fragile, deserving of a gentle hand. Her presence had always been like the soft caress of fresh air for him. She looked at him like he was normal, like he was worth something.

All of these romantic inclinations had died with the Old Will. He felt nothing now but the solid reassurance of work related human connection, and a tentative, banal friendship.

If only she could see him now.

The body lay where the wilderness of the woods met the the civilization of the road, half on the pavement, half on the grass. Just like him; half in the wilderness of his own soul, half in the bland society of a normal life. Will studied it from a distance, mouth in a predictable downward slope. Eyes tight, he rubbed at a fake headache that wasn't building in his temples. Play his role.

"It's almost a little alarming how good you are at acting," Hobbs joked from behind him, calling from the passenger seat of his truck. He had told the man to stay there. He didn't need any added distraction. It didn't stop him from subtly turning and glaring at him though. The long dead murderer laughed. When he turned back, Jack was stalking towards him, looking habitually impatient.

"A little close to home, huh?" Jack called as he approached.

Of course it was. Will didn't want to have to drive covered in blood for longer than he had to. He supposed that fifteen minutes was long enough.

"Yeah," Will said tiredly, pointedly not voicing his incriminating thoughts. Jack slung his arm around Will's shoulder and steering him towards the body. To Will's delight, Hannibal was already there, looking at it with a thoughtful expression.

"Doctor Lecter," Will greeted dryly. Hannibal reluctantly looked away from the bloody corpse.

"Good morning Will," the Ripper answered cordially. "I trust you've had a pleasant break?"

"It was appreciated," he agreed carefully. Hannibal looked at him critically.

"It's been a while since our last session. Would you be opposed to having one tonight? I imagine we have a lot to talk about."

Hannibal was trying to lure Will into his den, to dissect him. Maybe even kill him and remake him to his own liking.

_It may have worked if I wasn't already dead, _Will thought to himself smugly.

"If it's not too much of an imposition," Will said instead. Hannibal's mouth quirked up.

"You are always welcome in my house," the therapist said graciously.

"Is that a promise?" Will grinned, showing a few too many teeth, knowing the other predator would take notice. Hannibal narrowed his eyes, smile becoming more sharp. Before he had a chance to answer, Jack cut in.

"Will. I need you over here," the man barked.

Annoyance flashed on Hannibal's features briefly, twisting them, but it was quickly covered by indifference.

In a moment, Will was standing beside his employer, staring at his handiwork. He had done a number on the man, the clerk from earlier, showing all the blood the man had previously tried to hide from him.

"Clear the area!" Jack shouted, backing away, stranding Will on an isolated island with the only occupants being the corpse and its creator. He was acutely aware Hannibal was watching him from a distance, jarred slightly by their earlier conversation. He closed his eyes to his surroundings, simultaneously opening them to the closed off world of the past.

The pendulum swung once, twice, and then a third time.

He had waited for the man outside of the grocery store. Will expected the first kill to be tough for him, but as he crouched by the man's car and waited for the expected reservations, he was shocked to find that he had none. He wanted this, needed it. Badly.

The young clerk approached the car, the setting sun setting the sky on fire and deepening the shadow that Will waited in. When the man got to the car door and took out his keys, Will stepped out of the blanketing darkness and struck his temple. From there, it was easy to lift the unconscious man into his own car, take his keys, and head for a remote area. After he was finished, he would take the car and park it near a known chop shop in the area. No one would ever see the vehicle again.

The man awoke shortly after, and there was a brief struggle. Will ended up having to pin the man down by driving knives through his wrists and into soft ground. The resulting scream wasn't entirely pleasant, but the blood welling up… that had been sublime. The pale skin of the younger prey rapidly was drown in a sea of warm, glistening red. The pervading smell of pot that clung to his clothes was quickly overtaken by the cloying scent of copper.

Will felt alive, his own blood sang in his veins in solidarity. The man was laid bare before him, just as he had been. He had ceased to move, but Will continued to kneel on his thighs, basking in the burning passion that filled the emptiness. He felt as though he was on fire, his very cells were burning, his essence disintegrating under the overwhelming heat. Everything around him was whited out, he only had eyes for the red that flowed from his victim's wrists. He carefully climbed off the man and headed towards the car, opening the truck and gazing on his cooler with reverence. He knew he would be burned alive if he didn't have a chance to quell the flames.

He placed his hand on his sternum, where the symbol for fire was carved into his being. He wouldn't let it dictate his motivations, his life. He hoisted the cooler out of the truck and lugged it towards his quarry. The man was hardly breathing, having lost a large amount of blood through his wrists. He certainly wasn't conscious any longer. It was for the best, Will mused as he yanked one of the knives from his wrists. He was very careful as he peeled back the skin and flesh covering the rib cage, almost surgical in his movements. He knew this is how Hannibal did it, all precise and methodical, drawing out the kill. This was partially in homage to him, the man who wanted him fractured so very badly. Well, he got what he wanted, Will thought with a vicious jerk of his arm, fracturing bone. He was all broken and sharp edges, burning and cutting and chafing everything and everyone who got too close. Will idly wondered that if Hannibal knew the truth, would he still be so eager to lure him in?

The man was long dead, but Will continued his ministrations. The stilled heart was exposed to him, open to receive whatever Will wished to give it. The empath cut into it, making a neat incision. His work was nearly done. He turned back towards the cooler, licking his chapped lips. They tasted like blood.

A waft of steam greeting him as he opened the cooler. His hands felt blissfully cold as he picked up his prize, even through the thick gardening gloves he had put on to protect himself. Dry ice. The only solution Will could think of to quench the wildfire that was steadily burning out of control. When the ice met its mark, nestled in the cut in the heart, the muscle instantly reacted to the -75 degree cold. Will felt at peace amongst the crackling of rapidly freezing gore.

"This is my design," he whispered to himself. His mouth slid into a smile smoothly. "This is who I am."

When he opened his eyes, the world was three shades lighter and the wind smelled of spilled blood. Hannibal was still looking at him with a strange contemplative look, his mouth in a thin line. Jack moved back into Will's space when he assumed the process was over.

"Well?" he said, raising his eyebrows. His foot tapped to the beat of his pervasive impatience, his constant need for movement.

"This is the work of a jilted lover," Will lied smoothly, pointedly not looking in Jack's eyes in order to project discomfort. The agent ate it up.

"What else?"

"This man didn't personally offend the broken hearted killer, but he reminded the murderer of a badly ended romantic overture in some way. Maybe a tick, an expression, it could be anything."

"So we're looking for a homicidal woman," Jack said flatly.

"Man," Will corrected confidently. "This has… a man's rage," he swallowed thickly, remembering his own passion as he was cutting the clerk up. "He's gotten a taste for it, you can expect more of it later. He feels like the world has wronged him, and while he would never kill his lover, he loves and hates him too much, he has no qualms about killing any other unfortunate that triggers his ire," he ended his web of lies grimly. Jack looks less than pleased.

"What about the clothes," he gestured at how the body was missing them. Will had taken them, knowing it would be the best way to find any spare traces of his DNA. He didn't want to be caught, after all. "Is it sexual assault?" The implication was bitter in Will's mouth. He would never.

"No," he supplied quickly. "It's about humiliation." Jack gave him a once over. Apparently what he found was satisfactory, and he diverted his stifling attention elsewhere.

"We've got to catch this sicko before he gives us another scene." He turned his back on Will, who was no longer his immediate concern. Will nervously adjusted his glasses, letting the sun shine through them at different angles.

Play the role.

Hannibal glided up behind him, touching his shoulder lightly.

"My house, tonight at seven thirty." He was smooth in his entrapment, but Will was now light years beyond such petty manipulation. He would be at Hannibal's house only because he wished to be.

"Thank you," he breathed anyway. Hannibal nodded before leisurely following Jack Crawford away from the scene. As forensics descended, Will reluctantly followed.

**Thanks for reading, take time to review :)**


	4. Chapter 4

**Thanks for all the comments! Here's chapter 4.**

iv.

Hannibal watched with cautious interest as the profiler took his place, alone and isolated at the scene of the crime. He was twitching with nervous energy, which was normal, but the origin of the nerves seemed foreign in nature. A gentle gust of wind blew past the man, ruffling his hair slightly and blowing his scent over to where Hannibal was standing. Sweat, sandalwood, bad cologne and something utterly _Will. _But, there was something else there, something new and different, subtle, integrated, welcome. A faint fevered sweetness not brought on by any sickness, but instead originating from the empath, purely from the depths of his being. Singed matter with a touch of blood.

The man stood, king of a desolate kingdom, palms sweating, eyes screwed shut, reliving someone else's nightmare. It was magnificent, Hannibal noted as Will's spine stiffened, how keenly the man could entrench himself within others. He wished to covet Will's gift for himself, to be able to envelop himself in his burning mind, so close to the edge of insanity but not quite buckling, never dipping more than a toe into the churning chasm of darkness.

The kill had been artfully executed. Ice in the heart, carefully incapacitated with blades through the wrists. Methodical, neat, and yet full of dark passion. He could almost see his own work reflected in this murder, so similar and yet so different. He hoped to meet this killer, someday, if circumstances allowed.

Hannibal frowned as Will gave his diagnosis. This was not the work of a jilted lover, violent in heartbreak and harboring a vendetta against the world. It was painfully obvious that this was the work of someone who entranced by the kill, who courted death. What could cause Will's vision to be obscured so thoroughly? Or better yet, why was he lying?

He wasn't sure what Will was getting up to, but he was looking forward to their session tonight, where maybe he could shed some light on his odd behavior.

0O0

Will's nerves sang at being so close to someone so like him, and yet so unlike him. They were like two poles of a magnet, always wanting to push apart, and yet somehow, inexplicably, belonging together. His hands shook, rattling the tea cup against the saucer Hannibal had given him in a vain attempt to settle him. He hadn't taken a sip yet. He hadn't even spoken.

"Will," Hannibal's soft, yet authoritative voice struck a chord within him, and Will shuddered. If Hannibal had noticed anything, he gave away nothing.

_He wants to tame me. _Will thought wildly, nearly spilling the scalding tea onto his lap. _He could do it too, just with his voice. _

The question remained, should he let him?

"Drink your tea. We have a lot to talk about." Will's seat was inappropriately close to Hannibal's, far surpassing curt professionalism. Despite his earlier bravado, he now felt cornered, nowhere near the same level as the seasoned killer. He was just a child compared to him. Hannibal's gaze bore through him, igniting his already scorched being. He couldn't stand the heat.

"Relax," Hobbs' voice came from his left. Will didn't dare look, lest he give anything away. "You hold the cards, not him. Show him you're not afraid," the ghost's voice was a sibilant hiss next to Will's ear. "The tea. He has drugged it with a sedative. Drink it anyways."

Desperate for the upper hand, Will engaged in Hobbs' course of action. Clearing his mind of any lingering doubts, Will looked slowly into his adversary's eyes, holding contact as he brought the drugged tea towards his mouth and drank it.

_I know what you did, _he conveyed to Hannibal, knowing the man would understand. _I know what you did, and I don't care. _

The therapist's brow furrowed, eyes flickering between the drugged tea and Will's steady gaze.

Point taken.

There was an thick tenseness to the air that was choking, which only dissipated when Hannibal finally spoke.

"How are you feeling," Hannibal opened diplomatically, making the first move.

"Much better," Will answered crisply, smile cold. "The doctors told me I had a severe case of encephalitis. It's very fortunate they caught it in time before my brain turned to soup."

"Oh, very nice!" Hobbs crowed next to him, clapping. "Going right for the jugular, well done!"

"Very fortunate indeed," Hannibal acquiesced mildly, tilting his head. Every move was calculated, and Will was struck again at how far out of his league he was. Hannibal moved as an artist, every stroke measured and careful. Will was feral, snapping and hissing and easily put down. The only thing he had over Hannibal at the moment was the man's ignorance. It was a card he would have to play carefully in order to stay alive. "But we should turn our attention to more pressing events."

"My kidnapping." Will's voice was raw, uncertain.

"Yes." Hannibal agreed, leaning forward slightly. Will's confused body battled itself, wanting to lean closer to Hannibal, to share his passion, and desperate to draw away at the same time. The consultant clenched down on the urges harshly, forcing himself to stay still. "Take your time," the doctor intoned, expression as smooth as glass.

Will shifted tensely, working out how much he should say to Hannibal. He used the tea to his advantage, sipping it carefully and allowing it to dull his strung out nerves.

"I feel strange," Will said finally, leaning forward in his chair, hands steepled and resting on his lap. He carefully kept the emotion out of his voice, ever clinical in his interactions with the man who had manipulated him for so long. "I feel like I have to act like I know what it is, what I mean is, that I feel I have to pretend-"

Hannibal's eyes were keen, taking in Will's unconscious shift in posture. The consultant's pose mirrored Hannibal's, mind working overtime and retreating in on itself, allowing the body to reset to a default reflective state. He shifted his hand experimentally and found Will doing so also. His smile barely touched the corners of his mouth. Dear Will. Even without the encephalitis' imposing presence, Hannibal still found Will just as lost among his own twisted mental processes.

"To know what it is to be alive," Hannibal replied softly, banishing the lingering smile under a mask of professionalism.

"Yes," Will agreed. He leaned back in his chair, quiet for the remainder of his session with Hannibal. Even Garrett Jacob Hobbs did not dare to speak. The only sounds that permeated the silence was the forlorn clink of china, betraying Will's trembling.

**Thanks for reading! Take time to review :)**


	5. Chapter 5

**Thanks to everyone who reviewed. Warnings for violence in this chapter.**

v.

Will's second victim was a woman who recently sutured her own wounds within her home using dental floss and bourbon. She didn't have any insurance, which is why she reasoned that it would be better this way, just sewing the accidental wound up herself. It wasn't as hard as she thought it was going to be, just like hemming a dress really, except this hurt a little more and the blood made it a little difficult to see what she was doing at some points. She was careful, so careful, sterilizing the cut, the needle, everything. She took three aspirin when she finished in some aborted celebratory gesture, along with a long swig of the bourbon that had been so useful for cleaning the wound.

Fire sang in his veins as he cut vertically up from her trachea to her larynx, precise in his vision, ever the eager novice. The muscles and skin yielded easily to his enthusiasm, blood spilled across his gloved hands. She was dead long before he placed the dry ice into the incision and sewed it back up.

He told Jack that it was likely the voice that had set the killer off.

Hannibal's mouth sank into a thoughtful frown, as did Jack's. The mirrored expressions had entirely different origins.

"Doesn't the ice mean something?" Jack asked skeptically, gesturing to the damaged throat tissue. "He's used it twice now. It's a pattern."

"Sometimes killers take a trophy," he said. He shrugged and glanced over at Hannibal, only to find that the man was staring at him. "Sometimes they leave something behind. It's probably a signature."

"Probably isn't good enough!" Jack barked, beginning to stalk away. He had gleaned all he could from Will at the moment. The consultant was no use to him anymore.

Will sighed, rubbing his face as he watched his boss shove his hands in his pockets, stride purposeful in his burgeoning aggravation. As Jack put more distance between them, Hannibal took the opportunity to close the gap.

"What do you see in this killer, Will?" he murmured, disguising his curiosity with helpfulness.

_See. See._

"Anger," he lied.

_See. _

"Open your eyes," Hannibal commanded firmly. "It is not anger you see here. What is it?"

Will didn't want to say it. His emotions were his alone, not for sharing. His motivations were sacred.

"Will." He was firm, absolute.

"Passion," Will choked out, caving. "He loves it. It's not about the person, it's about the act, the intrinsic beauty of the dispatch."

Memories of his two kills, the passion and heat around them, filled him as Hannibal moved ever closer. He was trembling helplessly, a slave to the blistering heat that ravaged his person. His scars burned on his chest, screaming at him.

"Will... Will?" Hannibal's hand was on his shoulder, and Will could see through hazy vision a vague look of concern on his therapist's face.

"Too much," Will groaned. His whole body dipped forward, only Hannibal's firm hand kept him from hitting the ground.

"Agent Crawford!" Hannibal called over his shoulder. His voice was calm, even at its raised decibel. Hannibal had Will's slack body in a cautious embrace, Will's head was on his shoulder, and Hannibal's arms were tucked under the weak man's arm pits with his hands grasped firmly at his back. "Don't worry Will. I've got you."

It was strangely intimate to be so close to someone who had killed so many, and yet so carefully held him as if he would break if he fell. Hannibal's breathing was deep, controlled, and Will found himself matching it breath for breath.

"I can see everything," he whimpered into Hannibal's shirt, and the man merely hummed in acknowledgment. In truth, Will could see his own motives clearly, his burning need for reassurance that he was still alive, that the world around him was more than the bland opaques it projected. Hobbs leered behind Hannibal, so close he could feel his imagined breath in his hair.

"What's wrong with him?" Jack asked, worry lining his tired face. "What's happening?"

"Will is merely tired," Hannibal cut in smoothly. He shifted Will's weight slightly, and Will fought the urge to stay within the man's arms for a bit longer. Neither man said anything about Will's change in prognosis about the killer.

"'M fine," Will muttered, reluctantly pulling away from the doctor. Hannibal's firm hold on his back tightened briefly, before letting go completely. Will, still oversensitized and burning, searched into Hannibal's face and came back with nothing.

"Alright," Jack sighed. "It's time for you to head home."

He didn't bother to answer verbally. He just nodded. As Jack led him away from the body, Will snuck a look back at Hannibal. The man was looking down at his work, a thoughtful expression in place.

0O0

"Oh, that was rich," Hobbs sneered.

"Not now." Will was tired, exhausted really, and ready to just crawl into bed.

"You kill _two people_ and you have a breakdown?"

"It wasn't a breakdown," Will muttered sullenly. "It was sensory overload. I felt like I was having a seizure." He pulled off his shirt, exposing the scars that acted like tenuous stitches holding together his battered self.

"It's Hannibal, isn't it."

"Of course it's Hannibal!" he snapped irritably. "I can't fucking breathe around him. It's like every time he does anything, I feel like I'm burning alive!" He placed his hand on his sternum, half expecting to feel the symbol carved there to burn him. But the skin was cool, exactly as the flesh should feel. "I've got to do something."

"Sounds like you've got the hots for the therapist," Hobbs smirked. "It's like a bad porno." Unlike Will, who was standing tense at his bed, the specter was at ease, leaning back in his seat and crossing his legs. Irritation fluttered in his chest.

"It isn't like that," he spoke quietly, not looking at the decomposing man. His cracked, self deprecating smile tugged tersely on his face. "I hate him. He pulled me every which way when I was sick, he used me. But every time we're in the same room, my scars burn, and the burning pushes through my veins and into my head and I feel like I'm on fire. I keep thinking he knows that Old Will is dead and that _I _know that he's the Ripper, and I'm scared that he's going to end it. But I don't want it to end, now when everything's just begun."

Hobbs' milky eyes bored holes into the back of his head.

"Don't play his game then. Make your own."

"I had to be tortured in order to find out who I am. If Hannibal is going to see me, I mean really _see _me, he'll have to earn it."

Hobbs smirked.

"Make him earn it then."

**Take time to review!**


End file.
